In two hours, my favorite writer is not only going to be in my city. Me the Saudi, him the Turkish, in the very same/little/hard headed/liberal/green/rainy/moody Portland, he is actually going to be on a stage and I am going to be an audience. Together. In one wholly room.
Since his "My Name is Red" I have been respectful of his work, but up to this day I have never been in a situation where I could share the same room with an International Author -well, except for Ahmad Abu Dahman who I had no idea I was going to meet before I did!- this excitement is overwhelming and I am very afraid. Afraid of being disappointed. Of leaving the auditorium with irrelevant concerns like: the 20 bucks spent, the smell of the room, the bus being later than it already is, the hours I missed on being away from sweet hubby and baby.
In an attempt to better prepare myself for what might happen, I am thinking:
If people where ever fabulous in there ownself, would art ever have happened? What, then, is so fabulous about seeing the artist apart/away from their work? What is so wow about seeing a human displayed on stage? Is it not revealing of our fascination with the lions at the circus -tamed and sociable- rather than their being in the wild where they belong?
Will I be sitting at the back? Small, too small, that people seem ferocious and selfish?
Will the questions be plenty that they step on each other's tail, outdated that they would stain the evening black like overnight pile of news?
Ah, is something ever going to be said that has not been said before?